


And Now I'll Be Here (Whatever Way Our Stories End)

by PanBoleyn



Series: Between the Sand and Stone [5]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Quentin Coldwater Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:26:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27363478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PanBoleyn/pseuds/PanBoleyn
Summary: In which Quentin picks a gift for Eliot that gets back to the roots of his love for musicals, but that isn't the only surprise he has in store over the coming days...
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: Between the Sand and Stone [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1623388
Comments: 12
Kudos: 70
Collections: The Magicians Harvest Spectacular





	And Now I'll Be Here (Whatever Way Our Stories End)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I hope this finds you well! 
> 
> I'm back in Timeline 40a sooner than expected, but it's all soft at this point. Not quite tooth-rotting fluff, I hope, but probably close, lol. That said, there are some brief references to Eliot's childhood in this one, but that's the only warning I can think of. 
> 
> As ever, thanks to Maii for beta work, and to my enablers in general! Also, thanks to the Harvest Spectacular organizers, because this fic is for that event!

Eliot was a theater kid, once. 

In high school he got away with it because the teacher who ran the yearly school plays was his father’s cousin, and they had such a hard time getting people to audition for the boys’ roles that Mrs. Jenkins was just grateful someone was always there, and told his dad that it made her life a lot easier to have him there, auditioning and always willing to help the stage crew. 

It gave him an excuse not to go home, covered by one of the relatives his father actually liked. And then he’d been able to go to college for it, although that had been accomplished by running away the night after graduation and he would have done that regardless of what he planned to study next. 

Margo calls him a theater nerd, but Eliot has always denied that particular phrase, mostly because by exact definitions it’s precisely true but he still _ won’t  _ be admitting it, thanks. It’s much more fun to refuse to concede and watch both Margo and Quentin sputter about it in their very different but equally delightful ways. 

So he’s a theater kid, and the first Broadway CD he ever got his hands on was Wicked, thanks to a melodrama involving his eldest brother’s first girlfriend and her throwing everything he ever bought her at him after she caught him cheating. It was quite a scene in their backyard, actually, but Eliot grabbed the CD before anyone could throw it out, more out of curiosity than anything else. 

He listened to it near-constantly whenever he could get away with it, and the similarities he seemed to share with a green-skinned girl who bore a secret power and was officially known as a villain had had a tendency to twist in his chest, those last few years. So of course, when Eliot left Indiana for New York City, seeing plays once he could was nearly as high on his list as being in them, and Wicked was at the top of the list of things he wanted to see. 

(Also higher on the list than he’d ever admit out loud were most of the Disney musicals; his parents saw Disney as harmless child entertainment so when he was a kid the animated movies were the closest Eliot got to musicals. Part of him always wanted to know what they’d be like as stage shows. He actually got to see filmed versions of those in undergrad, though, because he was taking a class that included comparing adaptations. It had been good enough.)

The thing is that Eliot’s luck when it comes to Wicked has been shockingly abysmal. First, obviously, he didn’t have the money and he’d yet to learn the hedge ATM spell. Then, he was too busy between classes and rehearsals and bartending, after that he was settling in at Brakebills, the tickets sold out before he could get them, and then… 

He and Margo were actually supposed to see it in London, the summer after second year. Except that by that summer, they were in Fillory. Eliot didn’t have his golem long enough to rectify that particular situation. And there had certainly never been time after that. 

It’s not the only play he likes. Objectively, it’s not the best play in the world, it certainly hasn’t been the only soundtrack he knows by heart in a long, long time. It’s just the only one with sentimental value that he hasn’t been able to see. Funnily enough, he’s performed in it twice. Once as just one of the chorus when he worked with that Brooklyn magical theater company, and once in his third year of undergrad when he got to be Fiyero. 

He also played Liir in a group of film students’ final project, a movie adaptation of the book  _ Wicked’s _ sequel,  _ Son of a Witch _ , just to round out the connections. Eliot listened to both audiobooks for that and found the story really very strange, but Liir was decidedly not straight which was a nice bonus to the role. 

All this to say that Eliot hadn’t actually thought about trying to see Wicked again, what with his own recovery and Quentin’s, followed almost immediately by helping Eliot’s counterpart save his Quentin and averting the fucking apocalypse. Then they’d had jobs and a divorce and just… things to do. He hadn’t thought about it. Hadn’t really thought about his birthday either, until Margo sent a bunny saying she’d be there, they just had to make sure to send the bunny back on the morning of to make sure the times linked up properly.

(Strangely, a side effect of undoing the time fuckery seems to be that Fillory and Earth don’t have the time difference anymore; a day in one is a day in the other, but Margo does like to be prepared.)

“I appreciate Margo’s attention to detail,” Eliot says, eyeing the bunny in the cage Quentin hurriedly went out to buy, “but somehow I never pictured a rabbit when I considered pet ownership.”

“I always wanted a cat, actually, but my dad was allergic,” Quentin replies. “Except for when I wanted a fox.” 

“What, not an otter?” Eliot teases wickedly. One of the best discoveries upon getting their things out of Brakebills storage had been an old stuffed otter called Ollie hidden at the bottom of Quentin’s footlocker of clothes. Mostly because Quentin had squeaked and gone tomato-red when Eliot found it and held it up.

“I’m divorcing you,” Quentin mutters, poking through the pet store bag for the rabbit food he bought. 

“We’re not married, darling,” Eliot says easily, though really it’s an old idle threat from their other life. 

“Yes, well. Not the point,” Quentin says, dropping the bag of food. Eliot catches it telekinetically, and wonders why Quentin’s ears have gone so red from a mild bit of clumsiness on his part. “Thanks,” he says with a quick little smile. 

“Sure,” Eliot says, and doesn’t actually think much else of his birthday — it’s his thirtieth, so he kind of doesn’t want to think too hard about it — until the morning of, when he wakes up with Quentin’s mouth on his cock. 

“I think — ah — this is as much a gift for you as me,  _ ohhh,” _ Eliot half laughs and half moans, getting a hand in Quentin’s hair. Quentin hums something that is probably an agreement but Eliot actually cares a lot more about the way the vibrations of it heighten that  _ thing  _ Quentin does with his tongue — 

Really, an orgasm before one is even truly awake is not at all a bad way to start the morning on one’s birthday, Eliot decides lazily afterwards, halfway to dozing off again in the afterglow. But when he finally gets out of bed, it’s to Quentin’s amazing coffee and to chocolate batter pancakes with cinnamon chips. “Happy birthday,” Quentin says, with just a little hoarseness still in his voice to make Eliot smirk to himself.

“OK, I know I never told you about this particular combination,” Eliot says, even as he reaches for the syrup. 

“No, Margo did. And unlike most of your recipes, this one’s breakfast food so I figured I had a shot at pulling it off,” Quentin says with a bright little smile. He’s on his crutch, not the leg, and Eliot takes a moment to watch him take the dirty pan over to rinse it out at the sink. He’s pretty damn nimble on that single crutch by now, and better still on the leg, while Eliot hardly ever needs his cane anymore, the nerve damage in his own leg reduced mostly to a mild stiffness. 

They’ve come a long way. And that’s not a bad realization to greet turning thirty with, is it?

While he’s not looking, Quentin manages to slide a card across the table to sit next to Eliot’s plate. It looks like a standard Hallmark card but the inside is blank — or it came blank, anyway. Quentin has filled the left side with tiny sketches from… Wait. The sketches are all moments from Wicked, aren’t they?

The tickets for Wicked, tomorrow night, fall into Eliot’s lap. “Holy shit. When did you do this?” 

“Between moments during the saving other-me project,” Quentin says, smiling over the top of his mug. “I remembered you telling me how you kept missing it, and I thought —- when it was all over, it’d be a good surprise. Went for Halloween instead of your actual birthday because I knew Margo’d want to be here today, and also…” 

The smile turns sly. “This way, I get your real birthday and the one you pretended was yours to have a bigger party.” 

“Now you’re making fun of me,” Eliot says with an air of wounded dignity. 

“Always, but you’d be worried if I stopped.” 

Well. He has a point there. Eliot looks down at the tickets again and smiles. 

  
  


<><><>

  
  


Margo blows in through the clock early in the afternoon, which is something of a relief for Quentin, actually. He’s proud of himself for getting the tickets — there’d been months off and on during their Mosaic life when Eliot had sung Wicked songs every day to break up the monotony, and Quentin’s pretty sure that designs 300-365 were all somehow inspired by the play or the song lyrics. Having never seen it himself — though he did read the books, vaguely creepy things that they are — Quentin can’t actually  _ prove it. _

Which is what Eliot said, rather smugly, at the time, but Quentin is still absolutely convinced that he’s right on this one. 

The point is, he’s relieved when Margo comes through the clock with her gift, which seems to be clothes of a more Earth design made from some of Eliot’s High King wardrobe. The kinds of things that Eliot, being Eliot, can actually get away with wearing, even though most people would look like they were wearing a costume if they did.

Quentin’s relieved because the next hour is taken up with the three of them in his and Eliot’s bedroom, him and Margo sitting on the bed while Eliot tries on the clothes with different combinations. Margo calls out suggestions, and Quentin summons his sketchbook, charcoal, and pastels, which makes Margo laugh at him and Eliot grin slyly when he meets Quentin’s eyes in the mirror.

Keeping busy means that he doesn’t have to fret about how to go about the rest of his plan. He’d already decided not to propose on Eliot’s birthday, because that doesn’t feel right. It’s not that he thinks Eliot will say no — or, not really, but anxiety brain is a bitch — but it just doesn’t feel like the best choice. And he won’t do it tomorrow night, because… because… 

Because tomorrow is still about today, Eliot’s real birthday and the one he claimed at Brakebills for extra fun, and Quentin feels like the proposal ought to be something else entirely. 

Eliot leaves the room to take a work call, grumbling absently about how he’s supposed to have the day off, and Margo immediately turns to Quentin. “So let’s see it, Coldwater,” she says, and Quentin swallows hard, getting the ring box out from his drawing kit. Eliot doesn’t go in there, so it’s a safe hiding place. 

“What, no diamonds? Cheap bastard,” Margo says, then pokes Quentin in the side just as he’s starting to panic. “Calm your ass down, Q, I’m kidding. El thinks diamonds are boring anyway. You made this yourself?” 

“Almost completely,” Quentin says. “I shaped the ring and the stone, and I was able to change the colors to what I wanted. The cracks themselves, well. It’s like your amulet,” he says, gesturing to the necklace she’s wearing, dark against her shimmery gold top. “My magic and Eliot’s, which — it seemed fitting, you know?”

“God, that’s so sentimental I might drown in it. Lucky for you, El’s just as much a sap under the performance. Not that you need to be told that. So, speaking of sappy, what’s the plan?” 

“I, well,” Quentin says, running a hand through his hair. “Do we have time for this?”

“Sure. That work call’s bullshit, it’s an old friend of mine in the city who agreed to stall Eliot for a while. She’s using her landline and will text me when we’re out of time. So tell me.” 

Quentin sighs. “I thought about doing something elaborate, but that’s — I mean, this is me. If I try to do that it’ll probably implode in my face. So, well. I — when we got married before, at the Mosaic, we got married in the fall.” Quentin can’t see red and orange and yellow leaves against blue sky now without remembering that day, the vows they made and the cloth wrapped around their hands. The way Eliot had looked at him.

Teddy throwing leaves at them like rice at Earth weddings, twelve years old and pleased with himself.    
  


He clears his throat, shaking off the memories. “Anyway, I thought — outside, under the trees, like when we got married. It’s simple enough that I’m not likely to fuck it up, but it means something too?”

“Hmm,” Margo says, tapping her finger against her mouth. “I don’t — shit.” She holds up her buzzing phone. “Time’s up. 

“Fuck,” Quentin says, diving for his kit. He just manages to get the ring box back inside and the kit back in place when Eliot comes back in. 

“So that was a weird waste of my —” He stops, eyeing them both suspiciously. “Did I miss something?” 

“No,” Margo says before Quentin can respond. Thank God, because she’s a much better liar. “Come on, I got us dinner reservations and neither of you have the right look for it just yet, chop chop,” she continues, hopping off the bed and clapping her hands together. “El, you’re easy, I can trust you to figure it out just looking at me, but your boy needs work here. Want me to wrap him up for you or would you rather help?” 

“Oh my God,” Quentin says with mock exasperation as Eliot bursts out laughing. 

He hates them so much. (But, also, he loves them.)

He does kind of wish Margo’d had time to pass judgment on his admittedly somewhat vague plan, though. What if it’s a bad idea? Too tied to the past? That had been Eliot’s fear back in the throne room, after all, or part of it; that Quentin wanted the life they’d had together at the Mosaic, that he didn’t want Eliot in their real lives. 

Well. It’s too late to worry about it now, in a lot of ways. His instincts say this is a good idea, and he has to try and trust them, right?

  
  


<><><>

  
  


Eliot might have thought it would be anticlimactic to see Wicked after all this time, when he’s been in it twice, when he’s thought about it for years. And some of it is weird, actually; he’s used to the voices of the original cast and it takes a couple of songs to adjust, to enjoy the differences for what they are. 

He watches their Fiyero and thinks of his own performance, what he’d done then and what he’d do now after watching the actor playing him tonight. He’s also all but certain some of the people on the stage crew are magic users of one type or another, because the sets are just a little too perfect. Eliot spent another summer working stage crew at one of the theaters here in the city, and he absolutely used magic to grease his way when he could be subtle about it. 

Takes a player to know the game, and Eliot knows what he’s seeing. 

But it only makes it more fun, and when he looks over during one of the set changes to see Quentin licking his lips, then looking over at Eliot with a little smile, he knows even more certainly that he’s right because his little magic-sensor is picking up on it too. 

“So what kind of spells were they using?” Quentin asks when they get up to walk around during intermission, pressing close so no one will hear them. 

“Oh, are we really going to talk about magic?” Eliot laments. 

“I mean, I’ll ask later instead,” Quentin laughs. “Want to talk about all the ways you’re analyzing the show?” 

Actually,  _ yes _ , Eliot would very much like that, however much of a role reversal it might be to have him be the one who’s talking up a storm while Quentin listens. Still, it’s been a long time since he could really talk about this kind of thing — Margo’s seen some of his performances and she has good things to say about them, but the technical stuff isn’t really her thing. 

It’s not Quentin’s either, but he seems to like it anyway and, well. Eliot’s always enjoyed an audience. So Eliot talks, and Quentin insists on buying some of the overpriced merchandise. Eliot actually will use the coffee mug — all of their mugs are silly novelty ones anyway — but the t-shirt he’ll only use to sleep in. The snowglobe with Elphaba and Glinda inside is cute, though, and he’s pretty sure there’s a place for it on one of their bookshelves. 

He already has a framed poster that he’s still deciding where to hang up, so he can talk Quentin out of that one. 

It’s good. It’s a good night, and a good birthday. Quieter than Eliot would have liked in previous years, but he spent yesterday with both of his favorite people and tonight he’s finally checking the last item off the list eighteen-year-old Eliot had for things to do once he was free of Indiana. 

There’s a moment in the second act, though — it’s always been obvious to Eliot that For Good is as least as much of a love song as the more blatant As Long As You’re Mine is. Hell, What Is This Feeling? is basically _ I hate you but you’re also hot and I’m confused. _ It’s all obvious enough that after Elphaba and Fiyero’s duet Quentin leans in and murmurs, “So, they could solve this love triangle with polyamory really easily. I bet there’s fic.” 

Eliot has to bite the tip of his tongue to keep from laughing. “Tell you what, find it for me later?” he suggests just as quietly, knowing full well that this means if Quentin finds a good one he’ll read it out loud. That’s all right; the idea of getting to share this in ways that fit both their interests is a nice one, actually.

So. It’s always been obvious, and Eliot’s always liked the song, appreciated how well-done it is, but the truth is he’s never been all that  _ attached  _ to For Good. Defying Gravity has always made his breath catch in his throat, when he wanted to escape every bit as surely as Elphaba and just as much after he  _ did  _ escape. Dancing Through Life, of course, he has a special fondness for after playing Fiyero, and though he’ll never admit it some of those vibes absolutely went into the persona he’d affected at Brakebills. 

He hasn’t actually listened to the soundtrack for a while, so he didn’t notice. He didn’t realize. But this time, listening to For Good live for the first time when he  _ can  _ just sit and listen, in seats with a great view and equally good acoustics, this time is… 

He doesn’t know if he grabs Quentin’s hand first or Quentin grabs his. It doesn’t really matter, in the end. Eliot sits there listening to a song he knows by heart, and he thinks of a version of himself with too-long hair and dressed in widower black, he thinks of another Quentin with no voice and golden eyes. 

But he thinks of the man at his side more than anything, because — Quentin would make a terrible Glinda, and for all Eliot identified with her he’s probably not really that much like Elphaba. But this — _ this song _ is — 

He’s seen what he would have been if things had gone just a little more wrong, and that was powerful enough, but more than that, much more — 

Who would he be without Quentin? Who would either of them be without all they’ve had and been to each other? The very idea is unimaginable and Eliot can’t make himself let go of Quentin’s hand for the rest of the show. He can barely manage to let go in order to get into the cab without tripping over each other after they leave.

He’s pretty sure Quentin had another plan like his wake-up call yesterday, when they get home afterwards and strip each other down, but they end up clinging to each other as they move together instead, in a quiet that’s lingered since they left the theater. They don’t need to talk, sometimes, and now is one of those times. 

Later that night, with Quentin curled up asleep next to him, Eliot remembers their visit to Fillory and he thinks that he was right, that if this is growing up it’s really not that bad.

But after Halloween, Eliot notices that Quentin is oddly jumpy. Granted, this is  _ Quentin _ so ‘oddly jumpy’ is for a given value of the phrase, but he’s far more settled these days than he used to be, the result of all they’ve been through and the echoes of another life. The first few days of November feel almost like living with jittery first-year Quentin, and Eliot has no idea why. 

He asks twice, and Quentin insists everything’s fine. He’s not exactly lying, so Eliot doesn’t push the issue. Something’s up, and that’s so blatantly obvious it’s just sad, but it doesn’t seem to be a  _ bad  _ something. Maybe he’s cooking up some holiday scheme or something along those lines. Whatever it is, Eliot’s sure he’ll find out soon enough. 

(Quentin used to get like this at the Mosaic sometimes, and Eliot learned not to worry about it too much.)

But then by the weekend, all of Quentin’s jitters seem to vanish and he’s remarkably calm. “I was thinking we could go through the park today?” he suggests over breakfast. 

“Sure, why not?” Eliot says. They go walking a lot on the weekends, it’s really an excuse to get out of the house but it’s good for both of them to keep it up. Usually they end up in one shop or another, or they stop for coffee or even for a meal, depending on their moods and the time. Today they just wander, stopping for Eliot to stretch out knots in his bad leg or for Quentin to check his prosthetic.

There’s an apple cider stand near the pond and they each get a cup, sitting on the bench and people-watching for a while instead of walking. Eliot watches two kids throwing leaves at each other and remembers playing with Teddy in leaf piles every fall, remembers —

It takes Eliot a minute to realize that Quentin isn’t sitting next to him anymore, that he is in fact kneeling on the grass in front of him, that there’s a sudden bubble of quiet around them so that the only sound still getting through is the rustle of a breeze in the brightly-colored leaves all around them. 

Oh.  _ Oh. _

_ Holy shit.  _

“So, um, I’ve had the ring for a few months now, and I thought about making it some big event because you like those and you’d deserve it, El. But I tend to mess those up so I thought — I always think about us, this time of year. What we were, and what we can be, because it’s not the same, we know that now more than ever, I think, but it’s still  _ us _ . And I love you more than I have words for, I want another life with you more than anything, as many times as I’m allowed to. I like to think I know — I certainly hope — that it’s the same for you, so… Eliot, will you marry me?” 

Quentin pulls out a ring box and opens it to reveal a silver ring set with a plum-purple moonstone, shimmering cracks the color of peaches running through it. “Quentin… Is that one of the moonstones we spelled together?” Eliot asks, and he knows he shouldn’t leave Quentin hanging but he has to know.

Quentin nods, a flicker of nerves suddenly in his eyes. “It — it’s us. Something unique we just learned we can do, in colors that mean something important to us. I know it’s not really a fancy enough stone for an engagement ring but I thought —”

And Eliot, well. He presses a fingertip to Quentin’s lips to hush him. Then he catches Quentin by the arms and with his telekinesis, pulling him up and into his lap, so that for the moment Eliot’s looking up at Quentin. He’d like to say Quentin’s ridiculous for thinking he’d ever say no, but, well… 

“Yes, of course I’ll marry you,” Eliot says as a leaf drifts down and catches on Quentin’s hair, and another lands on Eliot’s shoulder. “But we’re getting married in a different season. We got back together in the summer, how about spring, huh? Flowers instead of leaves?” 

Quentin laughs, the yellow leaf still bright against his hair as he takes Eliot’s hand and slides the ring on, where it fits perfectly. Little thief, he must have stolen one of Eliot’s rings, and why does that make Eliot feel so damn  _ fond? _ “Whatever you want.” 

“Oh, now those are dangerous words, Quentin Coldwater,” Eliot says with a grin. He pulls him into a kiss that still tastes of apple cider, even as the leaves still fall around them like an echo of their once-and-never son and his mischief, like a blessing from their impossible memories of another life. 

They aren’t those men, just like they aren’t the versions of themselves from one timeline over that they spent so much time helping. 

They are exactly who they are, formed by their experiences and their memories, by California as much as the Mosaic. By seeing themselves refracted and knowing the differences. They know who they are, and this is one more way to build their lives together. 

Now Eliot needs to start thinking about wedding rings...

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat with me at eidetictelekinetic.tumblr.com or @Fae_Boleyn on Twitter! Or, for the RP inclined, cardtricksandminormendings.tumblr.com!


End file.
